Fighting Perfection
by alaricnomad
Summary: Angsty Paire. 2parter. When life turns bleaker than they ever imagined, Peter seeks solace. Claire welcomes him to her bed, but even in the night, she finds his heart cannot be calmed. COMPLETED.
1. Chapter 1: Restless

**Fighting Perfection  
**By Alaricnomad

**Part I: Restless**

Night had become our time, but even then he was restless.

I hear the rustle of the sheets, the bed shifting as the warmth of his body leaves the place beside me. The mattress groans in protest under the sudden shift of his weight, and he freezes, struck motionless in fear that the sound will cause me to stir. But years of practice had perfected my skills in deception, and this situation is no exception as I keep my breathing slow and deep, feigning peaceful sleep, eyes closed and chest rising and falling in steady rhythmic motion.

He exhales softly, a clear sound of relief, and proceeds to remove himself from our shared bed without further mishap. It is no surprise that his footsteps are soundless as he pads across the carpet, for he is a master of stealth. He crosses the room in a silent prowl that would prove deadly for anyone who crosses him, stepping into the pale moonlight spilling through the bedroom's solitary window.

As the faint illumination washes over him, revealing him in all his naked glory, my breath hitches painfully in my throat. Despite myself, I cannot help a familiar wave of appreciation and desire that wells up inside. His body is, in simple terms, utterly perfection. His physique is trim and fit, as befits the perfect hero, powerfully muscled to harbor the raw strength that makes him so inhuman, lying dormant in its cage of flesh and bone. Perfectly proportioned, chiseled arms, broad shoulders, slim waist, narrow hips, flat stomach…he's perfect.

But even I am not ignorant to the darker side of this. When not considered a hindrance, riddled with proposed weaknesses that make him merely mortal, his body is his greatest weapon, and like all his weapons, he keeps this one honed and sharp. Any conceived flaws would be considered utterly unacceptable.

We live our lives on edge, constantly fighting, running, hiding, going into battle, struggling to survive. The constant shadow of fear, the lingering rush of adrenaline after a battle. After a while it starts to become part of who you are, so far ingrained into your being that there's no escape.

We return from each mission, and another piece of us, our soul, our sanity, is stolen away. It's these nights that he comes to me. The darkness descends, and he becomes its creature, one with the void as if it is where he had always belonged. I have come to expect him, and there are nights when I push away my exhaustion, waiting up for hours until he makes his presence known. Other times, I have already given into the sweet embrace of sleep, and he slips into my bed. In either occurrence, I can never turn him away.

He materializes from the darkness, half in shadow and half in light, part-demon, part-savior. His eyes are wild, feral, raging with a fire that only years of harsh training have enabled him to control. He strips, giving no second thought to the garments as they descend to the floor, mindless to his nude state as he slowly approaches the bed, his gaze locked on mine with every movement, neither daring to look away.

He slides back the blankets, and from there, his actions lose his infamous control. He tumbles into the bed, eager for skin-to-skin contact, and before I can form a conscious thread of thought, his hands are on my body, and his mouth is seeking mine.

We are not gentle people any longer; it does not exist in our nature any more than naivete or innocence. And so, not even the first time, did I ever expect gentleness. His kisses are harsh and demanding, almost savage, and his touch is rough and seeking. It is always this way with him, riding that dangerous edge that has become our lives, seeking escape if only for a moment. We move together, hard, rough, demanding, only one goal to be sought.

Making love. Fucking. Just words, labels, euphemisms. I have no use for any of them, and neither does he. What we have, as far as I can understand, is neither one nor the other, perhaps something in-between, but ultimately something completely our own. Desire, lust, need, they all become one in the same in those moments, fueling something primal, almost animalistic.

Control snaps, thought is swept away in the tide, sanity all but forgotten as instinct takes precedence, mindless to anything but release. My mind is blank; my eyes are blind to anything but need and raw sensation. Release…sweet release…my world shatters and reality is a distant memory, lingering in the very edges of consciousness.

He never sleeps through the night, always routinely restless and fitful. He is a creature of habit, to be sure, but there is much more to this. He paces across the floor, repeating the same path of travel again and again, reminding me vaguely of a predator in a cage.

He is most comparable to a creature like that, I think, like a wild jungle cat. All rippling muscles and sleek skin, moving with a fluid motion that is surely feline grace, his body abuzz with nervous energy that never fails to remind me of the dangerous instinct and power lurking just below the surface.

He alternates between irritably running his fingers through his untamable mane of hair, or clenching his fists at his sides as his body trembles. From the expression mirrored in his eyes, it is obvious that it is pure, unadulterated rage that causes him to shake so violently, fighting for control over the emotions he views with such disgust.

At other times, it is tears that pool in his eyes, running hot and unchecked over flushed skin, burning because he does not want them, knowing he cannot fight them because in the end, he is only human.

We are killers, him and I. Our hands are stained with blood that will never wash away. We shoulder the burden of a war, dozens of lives lost, millions more at risk. We chafe under a responsibility we never asked for. Our bodies are young, but our souls are ancient.

When dawn comes, he will be gone. I can still feel the ghostly lingering of his touch, healed impressions left by desperate and needy hands, but I will not care. I may catch a glimpse of the screaming red welts down his back and shoulders he does not bother to heal, but I will not catch his gaze, and neither of us will comment.

I know nothing of his past, and even less of what his future holds. I know nothing of his dreams, his hopes, his loves or his hates. But I know his passion, I know his need, I know his pain. Someday…someday I will earn his trust. Someday I will approach him, and he will accept me at his side, let me help to ease his pain and shoulder his burden.

Someday, Peter Petrelli will understand that there is no need for perfection. That in the end, there is really no such thing, and it really does not matter.


	2. Chapter 2: Hopeless

**Fighting Perfection**

By Alaricnomad

**Part II: Hopeless**

Night had become our time, but even then I am hopeless.

Restless energy has a habit of coursing through me, and despite the comforting warmth of her beside me, I can not bring myself to sleep peacefully at her side. I move, raising myself into a sitting position, and the sheets rustle, the mattress groaning beneath me. I freeze for fear of waking her, but my efforts are useless. Her body does not tense and her breathing remains slow and steady, but it is an illusion, for she is no more asleep than I.

I give her no indication I can see through her deception, and instead, I sigh softly, continuing to climb to my feet and cross the bedroom. My steps are silent, soundless against the carpet, a side effect of the years I have spent in training. Beside the window has become one of my favorite places to think, and I step into the light reflected through the glass, blinking absently in the sudden illumination.

The pale, swollen face of the lunar moon shines brightly in velvet skies, and in her luminescence I stand, crossing my arms against the pane of the window as I lean in. Scars are etched into the flesh there, crisscrossing in the pale alabaster of my skin, lean with rigid muscle like the rest of me. It's a necessity, that despite the array of powers I harbor in a natural arsenal beneath my flesh, I still keep the physical body in utmost good condition.

The scars are as natural to me as breathing now. The healing power of a sweet Texan sweetheart transformed into the confident woman who fights at my side courses constantly, perpetually through me, but I let it stop, just short of healing- a reminder of everything I stand to lose.

I have no room for weaknesses. Nothing but perfection will do. I'm not longer mortal, no longer just a man. I'm indestructible, equally destructive, and I cannot afford the slightest flaws in my condition. I'm an icon, a leader, strong as steel and unmovable as stone.

Our mission has become my life's blood, my very purpose for surviving. In our world, power is everything, coupled with self-control, senses of morality, and empathy toward those we help, equating everything we stand for. Our lives are a constant rollercoaster, fighting, being hunted, just struggling to survive from day to day. We live in fear, we live in power…we live for the world.

They choose me for this, to lead them, to fight for them, and now it is no longer my calling…it is my entire world. It is a constant battle that rips through me- every death upon my hands, every life I fail to save- and still Claire would remind me of all the good we have accomplished, the sense of safety with have given back to those who do not fail.

It is not so much the mission as the power that rankles me. It surges through me, adrenaline and sweet, seductive power…I can feel them beneath my skin, living through me- in my head, my blood, my soul…I can feel them all.

After a battle, as I let my injuries heal; skin knitting over fresh from blemish, their scars rarely visible over the surface, it is Claire I feel the most. She is there, in my head, the power she holds humming through my veins. It is her I go to, her I crave, and she does not turn me away.

She has learned to expect me. Some nights, she waits up, anticipating my appearance, and others, she is asleep but wakes immediately to silently greet me upon my arrival. It is always the same after the darkness falls, darkness I can not help but feel is part of me; I feel more animal than man, dozens of voices belonging to those whose powers I have absorbed screaming in my head, my blood buzzing with the electricity of their abilities.

My infamous control splinters, and I strip of my clothing, useless pieces of material falling unheeded to the floor. And it is desperation that fuels me to cross the few steps separating us, pull back the blankets and fall into the comfort of her embrace.

I'm desperate, seeking for nothing but the touch for naked skin against mine, her body pressed to mine, to be inside her in the one way that will drown out the voices and just leave hers…Claire…Claire…nothing but Claire…

I am no longer a gentle man…I can barely remember a time when I was anything but hardened and guarded, but Claire responds despite the savagery of my assault, nails clawing at my shoulders, legs wrapping tightly around my waist, teeth digging into my neck as she silently demands for more. She is strong, stronger than any other I could have chosen, stronger than me in so many ways, and if there is anyone that can handle me, it is the girl-child turned woman that writhes beneath me in the night.

I'm rough, demanding, that I know, and it is an addicting feeling, riding out the edges of our very sanity, seeking some kind of relief to the storm that rages inside us both. There is something about her that sees inside me, sees that chaos beneath the exterior calm, the man beneath the hero, and I cherish this about her, even if I can promise her nothing but this.

I never sleep the night through. Despite that I can feel the warmth of her beside me, the soothing scent of vanilla teasing my senses, blond curls tickling against my nose as she spoons against me…I can never sleep the night through.

I pace, I stalk, predatory and dangerous, broken and bleeding as I find myself split open for the world to see. I can feel the weight of her eyes at my back, observant, measuring, and I wonder what she's thinking, what she's remembering. I feel her, her presence in my head, and somehow, I know I'm the one in hers.

I've killed, we both have. No matter how I try, I'll always see the blood staining my hands. I'll always hear the echoes of screams, the cries of those we could not save, of those who do not yet need saving. The dreams haunt me, foretelling and ghostly…empathy, they call it. I call it my own private hell.

The voices come back, weaker than before but an ever-present buzz beneath my skin, beneath this cage of flesh and bone so worked up with nervous energy I feel as if I'll burst right through it.

I hate it most when the tears come, potent and burning as I do not want them. They are emotion- pure, unadulterated emotion- and I do not want their weakness.

Morning will come, and our lives will go on as usual, as if nothing from the night before has changed me, has changed her. I'll feel her eyes, remember the feel of her body arching into me, her hands upon my skin, but I will not look her way. I'll feel her marks of possession upon my back I do not yet let heal, but I will not say a word.

I will know that I am hopeless, restless, and efforts to be otherwise are fruitless. I will fall back under the mask of perfection, and play the part of the hero I have become.


End file.
